


Branching Out

by DirtyKnots



Series: Kinktober 2017 [25]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Exhibitionism, Implied Future Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Other, Public Sex, Sex Magic, Sex with a sentient tree, Voyeurism, implied dub-con that isn't actually dub-con, tentacles of a sort, treetentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 21:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyKnots/pseuds/DirtyKnots
Summary: Kinktober 2017 - Day 25: SuspensionThey need to heal the Nemeton. Stiles is surprised by how.





	Branching Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleasurific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasurific/gifts).



> This comes across as vaguely dub-con, since the only way to heal things is via sex with the Nemeton. HOWEVER, it's stated in the fic that Stiles (although initially reluctant) is completely consenting. The magic would not work if he wasn't, therefore I'm not calling it dub-con or coerced consent, because despite his outward protests, he's into it.
> 
> Take care of yourselves though folks.

When Deaton first explained to Stiles how he could harness the power of the Nemeton and change its power for good, Stiles had laughed. Like, dn near pissing himself, rolling on the floor laughter. It had only trailed off when Stiles realized that Deaton hadn't even cracked a smile. Instead, the man had stood there, pinched expression on his face, waiting for Stiles to get ahold of himself.

“You're serious?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton's face was putting off serious “do you really think I'd make this up” vibes and Stiles had sobered instantly, scrambling back up to his feet.

“I...seriously?” He could hear the blatant disbelief in his own tone.

“Yes.” The reply was sharp and punctuated by Deaton turning and grabbing a book off of the shelf behind him, spinning back and shoving it into Stiles’ chest. “Everything you need to know should be in there. Please only ask me questions if you absolutely must. I don't want to discuss this any more than you do.”

Stiles accepts the book and the implied dismissal for what they are, hastily retreating from the clinic. His heart is thudding uncomfortably in his chest and he glances at the book from the corner of his eye all the way home. He locks himself in his room once he gets there, drawing his blinds and warily cracking open the book to the marked section. It's...a lot. A lot to offer, a lot to consider. He reads over the ritual in full, getting stuck on the part that says it must be witnessed by the entire pack. His face burns and he slams the book shut. They don't need it, not really. The thought feels like a lie, because it is. But he lets himself believe it anyhow.

Two days later, when everyone is picking bits of exploded redcap off their clothes and Scott is laying on a table in the clinic, Stiles sighs and knows that it's the only option. Especially when Deaton glares. They need their emissary to harness the Nemeton, to turn it back to their side, to work as the shield it's meant to be, not the beacon for disaster it currently is.

“Fine. Just...you explain it to them all.” The pack startles but Stiles stomps off, hides in his room with mountain ash on his window sill and his phone switched off. He showers and sleeps and tries to pretend this isn't going to be awkward as fuck. He has a harder time convincing himself this time.

When he switches his phone back on, he ignores the slew of missed calls and voicemail alerts and text message pings, scrolls until he finds Deaton's name.

_Saturday night, 11pm at the Nemeton. They'll all be there. You need to be on the trunk and ready before midnight. They said they'd keep to the shadows._

Stiles sends back a 'thanks’ and then shuts his phone back off. He's not ready to face them, isn't sure he's going to be able to handle it before the ritual. Hopes it's successful enough that it helps ease the awkwardness after. It's a few days away still, but he's got plenty to do to get ready. All of it can thankfully be done from home. He forgets until that night that his father is pack too. Forgets until he's willing into the kitchen to find his father sitting at the table, two fingers of whiskey in a glass. His face goes red as soon as he meets Stiles’ gaze and the realization comes flooding in.

“Son…”

“No, nope, nu-uh. We're not talking about it. None of us.” He raises his voice for the last sentence because he knows the pack, knows there's at least one of them lurking outside of his house. “It has to happen and it will happen and maybe, _maybe_ , after we can talk about it. But mostly I'm hoping we can all just...not.” His dad's eyes are wide but he nods and swallows down the entire glass. Stiles watches warily as he gets back up, but all he does is rinse the empty glass in the sink, putting the bottle away in the cabinet.

“Goodnight son.”

“Night dad.”

It's a rough few days. Stiles eventually does get around to clearing his messages, sending out a group text to let everyone know that he appreciates their concern, but it has to be done and he'll see them - or, hopefully not actually see them, but they'll see him - on Saturday. They seem to have gotten the message and he gets a slew of 'okay’ replies, but nobody calls or shows up. He and his father dance awkwardly around each other, rarely spending more than a minute or two in the same room if it can be helped. 

By the time Saturday arrives, Stiles feels ready to bounce out of his skin. He hasn't spent this much time at home since he was small. He double and then triple checks that he has everything he needs as the day shifts closer to night, packs and then repacks his bag. He showers, and then hours later has a second shower, taking even more care to scrub every last inch of himself. His skin feels raw by the time he's done. At 9:30, he slips back into the bathroom, grateful that his dad left already to join the others, the house quiet and empty aside from him. He takes his tablet with him, spends twenty minutes sifting through videos until something finally sparks an interest, and then he's stripping down. 

The lube he smears onto his fingers is cold, so he rubs them together to warm it, before pressing them into himself. He's done this enough that he knows how much give there is, how and when to be careful and when he can press on more quickly. He's in a hurry, but he does his best to slow down, let arousal curl through him softly. For this to work, it has to be freely given, so he watches the bodies move on his screen, lets the soft moans wash over him, shifts his fingers until he hits the spot inside that lights him up. He rubs insistently, allows his thoughts to drift to the ritual, to visualize how it will go, to picture the eyes glinting out at him from the trees, to imagine them watching him be taken, giving himself over to it.

It helps, and Stiles makes a soft noise before withdrawing his fingers. He feels calmer now than he has since Deaton told him what he'd need to do. He doesn't redress in the clothes he'd stripped off, instead walks naked back to his room. He'd drive to the preserve this way if he wasn't certain he'd end up accidentally pulled over with no real way to explain. Instead he slides on worn sweats and an old t-shirt, the material making him hiss as it moves over his now sensitive skin. Stiles think the ritual is already starting, with how keyed up he remains for the entire drive. The front of his sweats have a growing wet spot from where his hardened cock is brushing against them. It's all enough to make him forget about the others. 

His steps are sure under the glow of the full moon, the duffel dropped at the edge of the clearing that surrounds the ancient tree. He's never found it this easy before, but that's just more of the ritual magic working in his favor. The air feels anticipatory, like the forest itself is waiting to see. The calm envelops him as he reaches down and drags his shirt up and off, steps out of his sweats and makes his way to the damaged trunk. He crawls up onto it, the bark oddly soft and smooth against his skin. He thinks, briefly, that he should be cold and shivering in the winter air, but he's not. He's warm, his skin flushing softly. 

When he reaches the center of the stump, he shifts up on his knees, ancient Gaelic rolling off his tongue. He'd memorized the words, but it's flowing out of him faster than he'd ever managed in practice, his body pulsing with warmth and magic by the time he's finished. His legs are spread and he's sitting back on his heels when he feels the tree beneath him pulse and thrum. The split in the center widens, but he remains steady, watches with open curiosity as a green tendril comes snaking out of the gap, thickening as it rises. It slides across his things, wet and alive feeling, curls briefly over his cock before slipping down, seeking. He gasps when he feels it begin to press against his rim. It hesitates and he takes a breath.

“I give myself, freely, in view of my pack. A sacrifice to bind us as one. To bind our fates together.” As soon as the last word is out, the tendril breaches him, slow and steady, thickening further. He gasps, can't help rising fully on his knees as it keeps going, filling him up. It pulses like a living thing, which he supposes it is. When it's fully seated, the pulsing picks up speed, matches his heartbeat. He can feel the drag of his rim as it begins to pull back out, doesn't hold back the gasp when it's nearly free and then slams back in, harder and faster. He can feel his body opening around it, allowing it to fuck in and out of him. His cock is beginning to leak, drips of precome splattering the stump, spots of green blooming beneath them.

The Nemeton gives one particularly hard thrust that has his back arching, has him moaning out into the clearing, and four new shoots sprout up, rapidly growing and twining towards him. They wrap around his biceps and thighs, lift him up, shift him until he's lying prone, or would be if he wasn't several feet in the air, supported by supple branches. It allows the initial vine, branch, whatever it is - Stiles can't worry about semantics right now - to get more leverage. It pistons in and out of him, secreting some sort of sap, adding to the lube he'd filled himself with, making the glide smoother and smoother. The branches holding him up rock him back into the thrusts, twist him until he's facing down, puts him in a mockery of all fours. 

It doesn't matter, his cock leaks freely, the stump getting more great with every droplet that touches it. He's moaning non stop as the vine rails into him, hitting his prostate with near precision. He almost misses when the pack emerges from the trees, all of them drawn forward by the growing magic filling the clearing, reviving the Nemeton.

Every wolf is in their beta shift,glowing eyes locked onto him. He thinks, distantly, he should be embarrassed that they're seeing him like this, watching him get filled over and over, watching him enjoy it, but he isn't. Can't be. He feels a swelling of pride, at knowing his pack is watching him as he makes them stronger, safer. He stares at them all in turn, his alpha, his best friend, the woman he used to love, the one he used to date, Deaton, the second mother he needed, his father. His grin feels triumphant and ferocious and is only dropped when the vine thrusts in hard one more time, feels like it's blooming inside of him, the pulses spilling something hot and wet deep inside of him. He cried out and follows suit, his cock throbbing as he spills his come over the tree. Flowers burst across it and the clearing begins to glow, even as the branches gently lower him. When his feet are steady, the vine begins its last slow drag out of his body, trails of sticky warmth sliding down the backs of his thighs as it pulls free. 

The tree pulses, soft moss beneath his feet, and he carefully makes his way back to the edge, accepts the hands offered to help him down. He turns to watch, still unconcerned with his nakedness, as the Nemeton knits itself back together the bark changing colors until it's a healthy brown, moss and flowers shifting to wrap around it, climbing up the massive trunk. The branches spread and blossom, leaves unfurling and creating a canopy that hides the clearing from the moon. They know it's done when the tree gives off one last burst of light, all of them staggering as their pack bonds thrum with it, connecting them all, and then dims. The air cools quickly and considerably and Stiles shivers, finally remembering he's got nothing on.

“Uh, can someone…” he trails off when a hand reaches over and passes him the sweatpants and shirt, and he shrugs them on quickly, shivering again when the cool air blows across the trails of sticky wet still coating his legs and ass. “Thanks.”

Someone clears their throat and Stiles shakes his head, holding up a hand.

“Nope. Not tonight. I'm gonna go.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and then spins, eyes downcast. It's only a few steps and he's retrieving his duffel, slipping out of the woods and into his jeep. The drive home is quiet, but for once, so is his brain. He thinks about showering when he makes it upstairs, but the thought feels wrong, so he lets it drop. He shucks off his clothes, crawls into bed naked, curled on his side. He doesn't stop his hands from trailing across his skin, sliding through the mess left by the tree, fingers pushing softly into his hole. The fluid is viscous, similar to come but not quite the same. He's just bringing his hand back up to taste when it's captured by a larger one. He hadn't heard anyone come in, had thought the ash was still guarding the house, but the flash of red eyes when he looks over his shoulder has him making a soft noise.

“A gift from the Nemeton, your circles will protect us, but they won't hold us out anymore.” Stiles’ brows rise, but he nods, not really surprised. He thinks they're in for a lot of changes now, if the way he can feel the magic singing in his veins is any indication. “A sacrifice, freely given, to bind us as one.” 

A warm mouth wraps around his fingers, sucking them clean before meeting his lips, a soft tongue parting them gently, sharing the tree's spend. Stiles gasps into it, body lighting up again, and thinks that yes, there are a lot of changes to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [DreamWidth](https://dirtyknots.dreamwidth.org/), all of my additional contact information can be found there or on my [Profile Page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyKnots/profile) here (including where you can leave me prompts of your own)!


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